UC-NRLF 


Thoughts  in  Rhyme 


By    MRS.    HENRY    L.    BRADFORD 


Copyrighted 


San  Francisco 
191 1 


Dedicated   to    my    Friends 

—MRS.    H.    L.    BRADFORD 


THE    COMPLAINT    OF    THE    ROSE. 


I  bloom  in  the  garden,  sweet  lady  fair, 

My  petals  are  all  wet  with  dew; 

I  nestle  close  in  the  coils  of  your  hair, 

Or  among  your  laces,  so  rich  and  rare; 

But  tho'  deep  be  my  blushes,  and  silent  my  voice, 

To  keep  you  from  plucking  me  I  have  no  choice. 

I  watch  you  stroll  in  the  garden,  lady  fair, 

With  a  youthful  swain  at  your  side; 

From  the  bush  I  am  taken,  with  never  a  care 

Of  the  pain  I  may  suffer— and  then  you  dare 

Bury  your  face  in  my  rosy  leaves, 

And  give  not  a  thought  to  how  my  heart 


Ouch!  did  I  prick  you,  my  lady  fair,?1  ' 

Well,  if  I  did,  I  don't  care; 

You  pulled  a  thorn  right  out  of  my  side, 

And  my  heart  to  crush  you  wantonly  tried. 

My  petals  you've  scattered  all  over  the  earth, 

And  in  my  fair  garden  you've  left  such  a  dearth. 

My  neighbors,  the  Asters,  are  laughing  with  scorn, 

To  see  my  poor  head  laid  so  low; 

And  my  family  tree  feels  so  very  forlorn 

At  the  treatment  accorded  to  me,  and  so, 

A  secret  of  yours  I'll  tell,  lady  fair, 

Of  just  how  it  happened,  right  then  and  there. 

The  swain  from  you  a  kiss  tried  to  steal, 

As  you  held  me  close  to  your  breast; 

You  needn't  deny  it,  because  I  could  feel 

That  you  were  greatly  distressed; 

He  whispered  that  you  were  the  "Rose"  of  his  life, 

And  then  I  heard  something  that  sounded  like  "wife.' 

756003 

O\'E 


So  then  in  confusion  you  tore  me  to  bits, 

For  fear,  I  suppose,  I  should  tell 

The  many  sweet  nothings  that  fell  from  your  lips, 

And  so  cast  me  away — Oh!   well! 

I  sigh  to  think  of  the  link  you've  just  broken, 

You  might  have  kept  me,  if  just  for  a  token. 

But  that  is  the  way  of  the  world  so  wide, 
Our  uses  we  fill  and  are  then  cast  aside. 


Tiro 


THE     ANGEL. 

One  beautiful  calm  and  starry  eve, 
I  sat  at  my  window  and  it  open  did  leave, 

And  looking  up  to  the  heavens  in  sight, 
I  saw  a  vision,  that  beautiful  night. 

And,  as  I  gazed  into  infinite  space, 
The  beautiful  vision  a  form  did  take; 

'Twas  an  angel  I  saw,  all  clothed  in  white, 
As  I  sat  at  my  window  that  beautiful  night. 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  me  the  Angel  came, 

Singing  so  softly  a  heavenly  strain; 
Smiling  on  me  sweetly  as  she  came  in  sight, 

As  I  looked  from  my  window  that  beautiful  night. 

Soon  at  my  window  the  Angel  did  stand, 
Speaking  so  softly  of  that  heavenly  strand; 

Asking  me  whether  I'd  like  to  take  flight, 

Whilst  I  sat  at  my  window  that  beautiful  night. 

Answering  "yes,"  a  mantle  o'er  me  she  threw, 
As  white  and  spotless  as  the  Angel's  I  knew; 

And  taking  my  hand  and  holding  it  tight, 

We  soared  into  space  on  that  beautiful  night. 

Up,  o'er  the  tree  tops,  the  houses  and  towns, 
Making  mere  specks  of  the  people  and  sounds; 

Till  into  the  clouds  so  fleecy  and  light 
She  led  me  beyond  that  beautiful  night. 

"Be  not  afraid,  my  child,"  she  said, 

As  over  the  clouds  a  soft  light  was  shed; 

"The  home  of  glory  will  soon  be  in  sight," 
As  she  led  me  onward  that  beautiful  night. 


THREE 


Soon  at  the  door  of  heaven  we  stood, 
Feeling  on  earth  I'd  been  none  too  good; 

Till  the  angel  knocking  so  softly  and  light, 
An  entrance  made  on  that  beautiful  night. 

Hark!  listen!  to  the  beautiful  strain, 

Swelling  louder  and  louder  in  grand  sweet  refrain: 
Ah!  I  dare  not  enter  into  the  sight 

Of  my  heavenly  father,  this  beautiful  night. 

Then  glancing  'round  the  white  throne,  she  said, 
"My  child,  'tis  the  beautiful  home  of  the  dead, 

Whose  spotless  souls  from  the  earth  look  flight, 
Like  yours  did  take,  this  beautiful  night." 

Alas!  I  know  how  unworthy  I  am, 

To  stand  with  the  Angel  on  that  beautiful  strand 
Baring  my  soul  before  God's  pure  light, 

His  judgment  to  pass,  on  this  beautiful  night. 


FOUR 


IGNORANCE. 


Ignorance  springs  from  lack  of  education, 
As  battles  become  the  ruin  of  every  nation; 
A  man  whose  character  lacks  honesty  and  grit 
Soon  digs  for  himself  a  bottomless  pit. 

Ignorance — the  bane  of  every  man's  life, 

Causes  us  nothing  but  heartache  and  strife; 

Magnifying  two-fold  the  faulty  actions, 

Mocks  ambition,  courage  and  chastening  attractions. 

Ignorance — the  rock  on  which  many  lives  founder; 
Is  the  eddying  swirl  in  which  we  all  flounder; 
Grit  counts  for  nothing— woe  him  betide 
Who  wantonly  rides  by  ignorance's  side. 

Ignorance  dulls  the  fine  sense  of  perception, 
And  shuts  out  the  light  of  calm  retrospection; 
The  brain  is  the  headlight— the  conscience  the  helm, 
By  which  a  man  steers  from  ignorance's  film. 

Ignorance  rocks  the  cradle  of  the  low, 
And  causes  criminality  and  violence  to  flow; 
Red  flies  the  flag  of  the  ignorant's  creed; 
Anarchy,  violence  and  murder  to  breed. 

Ignorance  is  the  womb  from  which  sprang  the  birth  of  hate, 
Claiming  malice,  jealousy  and  envy  for  its  mate; 
Into  the  black  whirlpool,  drawn  by  its  suction, 
Soon  sinks  the  head  of  ignorant  production. 


FIVE 


THE    SNOB. 


She  walks  along  the  thoroughfare 
With  a  high  and  mighty  air; 
And  to  the  humble  passerby 
She  gives  a  haughty  stare. 

A  friend  she  spies  coming  down  the  street, 
And  jealous  to  see  her  so  trim  and  neat; 
She  languidly  places  her  lorgnette  on  her  nose, 
And  takes  her  in  from  her  head  to  her  toes. 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell, 

She  and  the  friend  have  met — oh!  well! 

What's  the  use  to  tell  you  all  they  said; 

On  curiosity  and  gossip  their  souls  were  fed. 

Passing  further  along  her  way, 
On  an  old  acquaintance  she  chances  to  stray; 
Sorrow  and  strife  has  left  its  trace, 
Where  once  was  beauty,  wit  and  grace. 

Did  she  stop  to  speak  to  the  old-time  friend, 

Or  offer  a  helping  hand  to  lend? 

No — not  she;  with  a  dainty  sweep  and  toss  of  her  clothes, 

An  indignant  blush  to  her  cheek  arose. 

Out  of  range  of  the  eyes  that  would  pleadingly  follow, 
Humiliation  and  shame  she  tries  to  swallow; 
That  a  person  of  such  numble  station  in  life 
Should  dare  to  her  speak  of  meaningless  strife. 

And  along  the  road  of  life  she  goes, 
Caring  nothing  for  the  seed  she  sows; 
Of  selfishness  and  vanity — the  love  of  praise 
Has  to  her  become  a  perfect  craze. 


Six 


What  matters  it  that  her  intellect  is  dead, 

And  that  at  a  glance  her  soul  is  read ; 

Is  not  her  purse  brim  full  of  gold, 

And  her  equipage  o'er  the  pavements  rolled? 

Her  glance  seems  to  say,  ''I'm  better  than  you, 
My  family  is  'way  above  yours"; 
But  of  real  friends  in  life  she  has  but  a  few, 
And  them  she  quickly  bores. 

And  so  to  old  age  she  slowly  passes, 

By  all  she  is  shunned  and  despised; 

Where  once  she  was  courted  she  meets  but  cold  glances, 

And  friendship  is  merely  disguised. 

Tis  not  the  snob  to  whom  sympathy  warms, 
For  confidence  in  such  is  misplaced; 
The  jewel  called  "love"  but  rarely  adorns 
The  soul,  which  is  surely  displaced. 

What  matters  beauty — what  matters  grace, 
Even  when  topped  by  a  beautiful  face; 
If  under  the  mask  of  the  hidden  soul, 
No  charity  knocks  at  the  door  for  its  toll. 

And  so  you  who  feel  above  sister  or  brother, 

And  snobbishly  turn  up  your  nose, 

Just  remember  you're  made  from  the  same  clay  as  the  other, 

Or  your  friends  you  will  make  into  foes. 

For  life  is  short  and  fleeting  at  best, 
And  of  real  friends  we  have  but  too  few; 
For  the  rank  and  the  file  must  lay  down  to  rest, 
And  the  old  must  give  place  to  the  new. 


SEVEN 


AN    ODE    TO    CALIFORNIA. 

(Dedicated  to  the  Native  Sons  and  Daughters  of  the  Golden  West) 


I  know  a  lovely  country,  where  the  mountains  kiss  the  sky, 

Where  floods  the  golden  sunshine  every  day; 

Where  the  valleys  clad  in  verdure  green  stretch  to  the  ocean's 

side 
And  peacefully  the  birds  sing  the  happy  hours  away. 

California!    California! 

My  own  adopted  land, 
Where  creeds  of  every  nation 

Are  welcomed  on  thy  strand; 
Whence  from  every  nook  and  corner 

Of  thy  great  and  glorious  State, 
Flows  abundant  milk  and  honey, 

Beyond  thy  Golden  Gate. 

I  know  a  lovely  place,  where  giant  redwoods  rise, 

In  towering  magnificence,  their  heads  to  greet  the  skies; 

Where  purling  streams  and  running  brooks  beguile  the  hours 

away, 
And  nature  in  its  glory  seems  ever  bright  and  gay. 

California!    California! 

On  thy  proud  and  rugged  breast 
Thou  hast  nurtured  many  children 

Of  thy  great  and  Golden  West. 
To  many  thou  hast  riches  given, 

Counting  not  the  cost 
In  memory's  pain  and  passion's  gain, 

Of  those  thou  loved  and  lost. 

Within  thy  sunny  Golden  State,  there  lies  a  fair  old  town, 
Known  throughout  the  wide  world  as  a  place  of  great  renown ; 
Thru  earthquake  and  fire — from  its  ashes  resurrected, 
Stands  dear  old  San  Francisco,  a  city  new  erected. 


EIGHT 


California!    California! 

In  thy  shining  armour  bright 
Lies  the  golden  key, 

That  he  who  knocks,  the  door  unlocks, 
And  a  password  gives  to  thee. 

No  miser  small  his  wealth  to  hoard, 
Can  pass  thy  threshold  o'er, 

And  from  the  bowels  of  thy  earth 
Set  by  his  golden  store. 

Like  a  sentinel  o'er  the  misty  vale  looks  old  Mt.  Tamalpais, 
And  in  the  rosy  afterglow  she  stands,  so  meek  and  pious; 
O'er  hidden  towns  she  slyly  keeps  silent,  watchful  eyes, 
And  on  her  crest  an  eagle's  nest  in  happy  ambush  lies. 

California!  California! 

Beneath  Mt.  Shasta's  snowy  peak, 
Sublime  and  full  of  fire, 

The  rising  wind,  a  path  to  find, 
Plays  softly  on  its  lyre; 
And  grand  Yosemite's  sparkling  falls, 
In  cadences  sweet  and  long, 

Throws  its  spray,  in  misty  play, 
Murmuring  a  rippling  song. 


NINE 


BUOY     BELLS. 


Ring  out,  ye  bells,  o'er  the  briny  deep, 

Proclaim  the  midnight  hour; 
Tell  how  many  souls  the  ocean  doth  keep, 

Beyond  the  lighthouse  tower. 

Ring  out,  ye  bells,  a  warning  give 

To  the  sailors  brave  and  true; 
Their  watches  to  keep  o'er  the  souls  that  live, 

On  the  ocean  deep  and  blue. 

Ring  out,  ye  bells,  your  solemn  knell 
For  the   ship   sinking  in   the   deep; 

The  horror  of  death  in  its  depths  to  tell 
Of  the  souls  'twill  put  to  sleep. 

Ring  out,  ye  bells,  the  break  of  dawn 
Through  the  mists  its  light  will  shed; 

A  requiem  ring  in  the  early  morn 
For  the  unforgotten  dead, 


TEN 


ONLY    A    BIRD. 


I'm  simply  a  poor  little  bird, 

That  only  chirrups  and  sings; 

But  my  presence  is  felt  by  the  high  and  the  low, 

And  even  in  the  palace  of  kings. 

I  build  my  nest  high  in  the  tree, 

Where  I  feel  airy  and  free; 

I  fear  not  the  wind  that  blows  from  on  high 

But  lift  up  my  voice  and  sing  to  the  sky. 

My  mate  on  the  nest  has  fallen  asleep, 

For  you  see  spring-time  is  here  once  again; 

I'm  waiting  and  watching  for  that  little  "peep-peep, 

And  of  nestlings  I  hope  to  have  ten. 

I  fear  not  the  wind  through  the  tree,  or  its  sough, 

As  my  cradle  is  swung  to  and  fro; 

But  softly  a  lullaby  I  sing  to  my  mate, 

As  she  nods  on  the  nest,  from  early  till  late. 

I  rise  with  the  sun  and  greet  it  with  song, 
And  with  kings  I  wouldn't  change  places; 
In  fear  of  their  lives  they  live  all  day  long, 
With  no  trace  of  content  on  their  faces. 

I  soar  to  the  sky,  then  back  to  the  earth, 
And  hover  o'er  the  farmer  just  creeping  to  work; 
With  a  worn,  weary  tread,  and  a  face  full  of  dread, 
Of  the  labor  he  may  not  shirk. 

I  perch  on  the  stile  and  lift  up  my  voice, 
In   thanksgiving   and   praise  to  heaven, 
That  I'm  only  a  bird  and  was  not  given  choice, 
To  eat  the  bread  of  leaven. 

And  thus,  I  say,  as  you  may  have  heard, 
After  all  is  said  and  done, 
Of  all  living  creatures  under  the  sun, 
Who  is  so  free  as  a  bird? 


ELEVEN 


THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR. 


How  sweet  it  is  to  sit 
Watching  the  shadows  flit, 
In  the  solemn  twilight  hour; 
Listening  to  the  bells  ring, 
From  out  some  Convent  tower. 

Watching  the  clouds  as  they  fly, 

O'er  the  darkening  sky, 

WThilst  the  dew  is  gently  falling; 

The  nightingale  in  the  stillness 
To  its  mate  is  sweetly  calling. 

Or  thinking  of  a  by-gone  day, 
When  love  its  offering  laid 
At  thy  feet,  so  gently  pleading; 

In  thy  loneliness  and  sorrow 
Its  caresses  greatly  needing. 

How  sad  and  solemn  to  think 
Of  the  dear,  but  broken  link 
Which  bound  thee  to  the  past; 

Its  chain  once  gently  forged, 
In  love  and  friendship  cast. 

This  beautiful  twilight  hour 

Memories  bring,  like  some  flower 

To  whose  perfume  a  tenderness  clings, 

Reminding  us  gently  and  sadly 
That  time  hath  taken  wings. 


TWELVE 


THE  MAJOR  AND  MINOR   KEY. 


Major  Key  (Blond). 

Fair  as  a  lily — with  golden  tresses, 

Eyes  of  violet,  angelically  pure; 
Cheeks  like  a  rose-leaf  a  blush  caresses, 

Lips  of  carmine  unconsciously  lure. 

Tenderly— archly — ever   onward    beckoning, 
Like  flowers  absorbing  the  sunshine  and  dew 

Is  her  smile — like  some  bright  jewel  adorning — 
Crowning  her  womanhood  with  its  glorious  hue, 


Minor  Key  (Brunette). 

Soft  as  the  gaze  of  a  gentle  dove 
Are  the  slumbrous  eyes  of  this  maiden  fair; 

Hiding  in  their  depths  a  wondrous  love, 
So  solemn,  so  sweet — with  infinite  care. 

Gentle  the  touch  of  her  hand  so  white, 
Soft  as  the  sighing  zephyr  at  night; 
Angelic  the  smile  its  sweetness  to  lend, 
In  pitying  sorrow  the  knee  to  bend. 

Like  the  dying  echoes  of  the  organ's  roll, 
Solemnly  the  chimes  at  midnight  toll; 
And  the  voice  of  the  maiden,  low  and  sweet, 
In  prayer  ascends  to  the  Father's  feet. 

Softly  slumber,  oh!  maiden  fair, 

With  the  wondrous  eyes  and  raven  hair; 

Thy  lips  to  seal — death's  cold  embrace 

Through  its  valley  and  shadow  thy  feet  shall  trace. 


THIRTEEN 


THE   SOLILOQUY  OF  THE    FLOWERS. 

A  beautiful  Lily,  so  graceful  and  white, 
Said,  as  she  shook  off  a  pearly  dew-drop, 

"Sweet  Rose,  a  question  I'd  fain  ask  to-night, 
What  do  you  think  of  the  Forget-me-not?" 

The  fragrant  Rose,  so  dainty  and  sweet, 

The  question  a  moment  did  ponder,  then  said: 

"There  is  no  flower  more  gentle  and  neat 
Than  the  Forget-me-not,  by  the  sunshine  fed." 

Then  the  tall  white  Lily  in  a  majestic  sweep 
Glanced  o'er  the  flowers  that  lay  at  her  feet, 
And  said  to  the  Marigold,  "I  prithee  speak 
And  tell  me  what  you  of  the  question  think?" 

The  Marigold,  turning  her  face  toward  the  flower 
And  shaking  herself  like  a  bird  in  a  bower, 
Answered  and  said  to  the  Lily  so  fair, 
"I  prithee  not  ask  me,  what  do  I  care?" 

Then  up  spoke  the  Hollyhock,  so  slender  and  high, 
Giving  to  the  Marigold  a  frown  and  a  sigh; 
"There  are  some  among  us  who'd  fain  make  us  feel 
They're  too  far  above  us  an  answer  to  seal." 

The  beautiful  Lily  feeling  hurt  at  the  slight 
Put  upon  the  question  she  had  asked  that  night, 
Turned  to  the  offender,  and  in  accents  low 
Said:     "My  friend,  your  answers  should  always  be 
slow." 

Then  turning  to  the  Rose,  and  speaking  to  all, 

The  queenly  Lily  her  opinion  told; 
And  wishing  them  all  a  graceful  good-night, 
She  folded  her  petals  and  swept  out  of  sight. 


FOURTEEN 


THE  DAISY. 


A  sweet  little  daisy  in  the  roadside  grew, 
So  shy  and  timid,  so  graceful,  too; 
Its  pretty  white  petals  turned  toward  the  sun, 
As  though  asking  a  benediction  over  someone. 

As  night  o'er  the  earth  its  mantle  shed, 
Each  little  petal  with  dew  was  fed; 
And  the  tired  little  daisy  its  slumber  sought, 
In  peaceful  contentment,  with  never  a  thought. 

All  through  the  night  it  calmly  slept, 
Giving  no  heed  to  the  storm  as  it  swept 
Down  from  the  heavens  its  anger  to  vent 
On  the  poor  little  head,  unsheltered  and  bent. 

But  with  the'  dawn  which  came  rosy  and  bright. 

As  though  asking  forgiveness  for  the  work  of  the  night, 

The  poor  little  daisy  its  sweet  head  unbent, 

A  silent  thanksgiving  to  Heaven  it  sent. 

A  lesson  we,  too,  may  learn  from  this  flower, 
Our  trials  in  silence  and  patience  to  bear; 

And  like  the  sweet  daisy,  in  our  troubled  hour, 
A  thanksgiving  to  Heaven,  we'll  send  in  prayer. 


FIFTEEN 


THE   MOTH  AND  THE  FLAME. 

From  the  country  came  one  summer's  day, 

A  winsome  lass,  so  fair  to  see; 
Letters — rich  in  promise,  in  her  bosom  lay, 

And  she  longed  among  sights  and  sounds  to  be. 

At  the  city's  gate  she  was  met  by  an  elegant  swain, 

Who  to  his  bosom  this  lass  did  strain; 

A  kiss  on  her  ruby  lips  he  pressed, 

And  her  form  in  silks  and  jewels  he  dressed. 

Her  innocent  eyes,  so  blue  and  bright, 
Looked  happy  and  glad  on  the  city's  light; 
No  thought  of  sorrow  or  pain  did  mar, 
Or  dim  the  brilliance  of  her  star. 

O'er  the  pavement  with  the  swain  she  presently  rolled, 
Each  fittingly  attired — well  supplied  with  gold; 
Their  beautiful  carriage,  with  horses  four, 
Soon  stopped  before  a  glittering  door. 

Laughter  and  music  issued  forth  from  within, 
This  glittering  palace  of  gaiety  and  sin; 
The  clink  of  the  glasses,  the  mirth  and  the  wine, 
Soon  helped  subdue  this  pure  soul  divine. 

As  the  mirth  and  hilarity  grew  furious  and  faster, 
Of  the  poor  country  girl  this  swain  became  master; 
Not  a  care  in  the  world,  not  a  thought  of  her  doom, 
Nothing  but  love  for  him  who  had  builded  her  tomb. 

The  hours  and  the  days,  aye,  the  months  have  flown  fast, 

And  nothing  is  left  but  memory  of  the  past; 

A  social  outcast,  a  pariah  was  she, 

But  a  veritable  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  was  he. 

His  love  grew  colder,  hers  but  more  ardent, 

And  the  life  of  shame  was  her  chain; 
'Tis  the  old,  old  story,  of  the  sinner  hardened. 

The  story  of  the  moth  and  the  flame. 


SIXTEEN 


LOVE'S  MESSAGE. 

Ah!  little  birdie,  soaring  up  so  high, 
Trying  so  hard  to  reach  the  blue  sky, 
A  tender  message  from  my  sweetheart  bring, 
Or  some  sweet  token,  whilst  on  the  wing. 

And  whilst  through  the  air  thy  glad  notes  trilling, 
Some  drooping  heart  so  softly  thrilling, 
My  darling,  dear  birdie,  so  tender  and  true, 
Is  patiently  waiting  and  watching  for  you. 

I'm  waiting  and  wondering,  dear  birdie,  too, 
What  message  my  sweetheart  will  give  to  you; 
Whether  her  eyes  their  slumber  have  sought, 
And  touching  her  pillow,  hast  given  me  a  thought? 

Oh!  hasten!  dear  birdie,  before  the  night, 
Its  mantle  of  darkness  sheds  o'er  the  light; 
My  darling's  dwelling-place  hiding  from  view, 
My  anguished  heart — 'tis  breaking  in  two. 

Methinks  I  see  her  bonny  dark  eyes, 

The  love  and  longing  that  in  them  lies; 

And  feel  the  sweet  pressure  of  her  lips  on  my  brow, 

As  clasping  my  hand,  we  exchange  a  vow. 

Ah!  birdie,  dear!  love  to  me  is  sweetly  calling, 
The  moon  has  risen;  the  dew  is  softly  falling; 
The  Lilac  with  its  perfume  is  scenting  the  air, 
Making  earth  so  enchanting,  and  all  things  fair. 

Mother  earth  in  the  arms  of  Morpheus  is  sleeping, 
The  angels  above  their  watches  are  keeping; 
Sleep  from  my  couch  hath  cruelly  fled, 
And  my  aching  heart  in  its  anguish  hath  bled. 

Oh!  life  of  my  life,  and  heart  of  my  heart, 
Of  my  love  and  being,  a  part  thou  art; 
Send  birdie  back,  when  the  stars  shall  pale, 
And  breathe  to  me  some  sweet,  loving  tale. 


Si  i  •/:.vn-£.v 


THE     STORM. 


Hark!  the  storm — how  it  roars, 

As  it  fitfully  sweeps  in  gusts  past  our  doors; 

And  the  thunder  above  is  rumbling  and  rolling, 

Till  the  lightning  it  meets— like  a  lost  soul  calling; 

And  angrily  it  crashes  in  the  heavens  overhead, 

As  tho'  judgment  'twere  passing  on  the  quick  and  the  dead. 

Hist!  how  the  wind  is  howling  and  moaning, 

And  the  timbers  around  are  cracking  and  groaning; 

The  clock  in  the  belfry  is  solemnly  tolling 

The  hour  of  midnight — how  cheerless — how  drear — 

Not  a  sound  is  heard  but  the  storm  on  the  ear; 

And  swiftly  it  hurries  down  the  silent  street, 

As  though  a  lurking  ghost  'twere  bound  to  meet. 

Out  o'er  the  ocean  the  tempest  is  raging, 
The  foaming  waves  are  endlessly  changing; 
Hark!  the  boom  of  a  signal  is  rending  the  air, 
'Tis  a  ship  in  distress — how  pitiful  its  despair; 
The  crew  in  anguished  terror  are  trying  to  do  battle, 
For  their  lives  are  in  danger — midst  the  awful  rattle. 

Each  heart  is  murmuring  its  prayer,  in  fear, 

And  silently  drops  the  falling  tear; 

For  the  huge  waves  are  washing  o'er  the  brave  ship's  sides 

And  danger  and  death  in  its  lurking  foam  lies; 

No  help  is  near — no  human  aid  nigh, 

From  each  lip  bursts  an  anguished  sigh. 

The  gallant  ship  has  sprung  a  leak, 
And  is  quickly  sinking  in  the  briny  deep; 
The  Angel  of  Peace  its  roll  is  calling, 
Each  tortured  soul  to  its  rest  is  falling; 
One  last  gurgling  moan  and  the  spirit  flies, 
To  its  haven  of  rest — God's  beautiful  skies. 


EIGHTEEN 


A   WINTER   SUNSET. 


Oh!  who  can  describe  a  winter  sunset, 
With  its  rosy,  pink  and  amber  hues; 

And  who  has  watched  the  fleecy  cloudlets 
Banking  the  sky  above  so  blue. 

Oh!  who  hast  seen  the  last  rays  lingering, 
O'er  the  water,  like  a  sheet  of  gold; 

Gleaming  on  the  ice,  the  colors  mingling, 

Like  the  hues  of  a  rainbow,  cast  in  mould. 

Oh!  have  you  ever  watched  it  setting 

Majestically  behind  the  trees; 
And  watched  the  colors  harmoniously  blending, 

Like  a  replenished  fire  in  the  breeze? 

The  sun  lights  the  sky  in  a  last  blaze  of  glory, 
It  sinks — and  is  finally  hidden  from  view; 

And  looking  like  a  wonderful  phantasmagoria, 
Its  beauties  fade,  as  we  must  fade  too. 


NINETEEN 


THE    COUNTRY    DANCE. 

Whilst  in  the  country  visiting  friends, 
To  a  dance  I  was  invited  one  night; 

Invitations  to  all  the  neighbors  were  sent, 
My!  'twas  a  glorious  sight. 

At  nine  o'clock,  the  girls  with  their  beaus, 

All  began  to  arrive  in  loads; 
The  fiddlers  stationed  out  in  the  hall, 

Loudly  the  figures  of  the  dance  did  call. 

The  beaus  for  their  partners  began  to  look  'round, 
"May  I  have  the  pleasure"  did  often  resound; 

And  laughing  and  chatting  their  places  did  take, 
A  sign  to  the  fiddlers  some  one  did  make. 

Then  clasping  the  girls  around  the  waist, 
The  dainty  figures  of  the  lancers  they  traced; 

Till  lost  in  the  maze  of  the  graceful  dance, 
You  felt  as  tho'  you  had  been  in  a  trance. 

Some  called  for  the  waltz,  so  simple  and  light, 
Some  for  the  polka — 'twas  a  friendly  fight; 

The  fiddlers  then  called  out  'twas  a  sin 
That  no  one  knew  how  to  dance  "Mrs.  Flynn." 

Of  all  the  things  they  danced  that  night, 
Well!  "Mrs.  Flynn"  was  the  funniest  sight; 

As  over  the  floor  like  a  whirling  stone 
They  flew  along  like  a  Western  cyclone. 

Then  came  supper;  'twas  midnight  then, 
They  had  everything  you  could  write  with  a  pen: 

Flirtations  went  on  with  the  boys  galore, 
I  guess  it  left  full  many  a  heart  sore. 

The  country  dance  I  attended  that  night, 
Will  in  my  memory  go  through  life; 

A  pair  of  dark  eyes  will  haunt  me  too, 
They  belong  to  someone,  I  won't  tell  who. 


TWENTY 


LOVE. 


Love  one  morning  in  my  window  flew, 
Love  one  morning  in  my  cold  heart  grew; 
Love  one  morning  a  trial  did  send, 
Love  one  morning  my  trial  did  end. 

Love  is  something  hard  to  define, 
It's  a  sensation  around  the  heart  you'll  find, 
That'll  make  you  feel  happy  and  gay,  or  sad, 
Tis  sometimes  for  good  and  sometimes  for  bad. 

Love  does  not  always  come  as  it  should, 
It  s  apt  to  bring  trouble  as  well  as  good, 
To  those  who  would  by  its  glamour  be  led, 
If  wisdom  be  not  o'er  that  glamour  shed. 

Then  a  warning  take;  list  to  this  plea, 
From  evil  glamours,  I  pray  thee,  flee; 
Heed  not  the  tongue  that  evil  speaks, 
For  love  brings  sorrow  as  well  as  peace. 


TWENTY-ONE 


THY    LOT. 


If  thy  lot  be  cast  among  the  rich, 

And  thy  burdens  on  thee  lightly  bear, 

Remember  the  One  who  ordained  thy  lot, 
In  love  and  pity  other's  sorrow  share. 

Though  poor  and  needy,  'neath  tattered  clothes, 
Thou'lt  often  find  pure  hearts  that  beat, 

With  love  for  Him  who  in  this  throes 
Died,  that  He  might  lead  us  to  His  feet. 

Ah!  wilt  thou  turn  from  thy  Savior's  side, 
Letting  His  children  in  perdition  hide, 

For  the  want  of  a  little  timely  help, 

Thou  might'st  have  given  from  thy  wealth. 


TWENTY-TWO 


WINTER. 


Winter,  a  king  o'er  the  earth,  doth  reign, 

Bringing  good  cheer  and  joys, 
For  Christmas  is  here,  and  we  would  fain 

Bring  pleasure  to  girls  and  boys. 

Winter,  a  snowy  mantle  doth  shed 

Over  the  earth  like  a  great  white  spread, 

And  over  the  water  doth  lay  like  a  vise, 
Making  each  pond  a  great  sheet  of  ice. 

Winter,  in  a  majestic  and  proud  little  puff, 
Sweeps  round  corners  and  acts  very  rough, 

As  if  in  high  glee  at  some  mischief  to  find, 
Some  poor  little  soul  to  whom  he's  unkind. 

So  boys  and  girls,  both  great  ana  small, 
Good  news  I  proclaim,  to  one  and  all, 

Get  out  your  sleds,  your  skates  and  toys, 
And  with  a  shout,  make  known  your  joys. 

And  show  old  Christmas  you  love  him  well 
By  being  happy  and  joyful  and  gay. 

And  giving  sweet  Sue  and  dear  little  Nell 
A  ride  on  your  own  little  sleigh. 


TWENTY-THREE 


CLARA. 


Clara  was  a  golden  haired  maid, 
So  sweet  and  winsome  was  she; 

With  eyes  as  blue  as  the  summer  skies, 
That  arched  o'er  the  apple  tree. 

Her  heart  so  pure,  so  full  of  love, 

Ah!  she  was  like  a  queen; 
So  gentle,  so  kind,  so  like  a  dove, 

Doing  nothing  unkind  or  mean. 

And  so  one  day  her  summons  came, 
To  heaven  her  soul  took  flight; 

The  days  have  never  seemed  the  same 
Since  she  was  called  that  night. 

My  sister,  I  know,  an  angel  is, 

I  would  not  wish  her  back, 
For  happier  by  far  in  heaven  it  is, 

Than  on  this  earth  to  lack. 

So  fare  thee  well,  my  cherished  one, 

In  heaven  I  hope  some  day 
To  stand  with  thee  on  that  great  throne, 

Apart  from  earth's  sad  fray. 


TWENTY-FOUR 


PRESS  OF  THE 

FRANKLIN   LINOTYPING   CO 

SAN    FRANCISCO 


' D      I 


756C03 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


